A Prairie Courtship

CHAPTER XXIX

THE NEW OUTLOOK

It was unusually dark when Florence Hunter drove out of the settlement with her husband riding beside the wagon, and the roughness of the trail made conversation difficult. Florence was, on the whole, glad of this, because, although she felt that there was a good deal to be said, she could not express herself befittingly while her attention was concentrated on the team. Besides, she wanted to see the man and watch his face when she spoke to him.

She was accordingly content that he should ride in silence except for an occasional disconnected observation about the horses or the trail, to which she merely made a casual answer. It was late when they reached the homestead, and though a light or two was burning nobody seemed to be about, which was, however, only what she had expected. Hunter led the horses away toward the stables, and entering the house she sat down to wait for him somewhat anxiously, though she realized that the possibility of his being angry would not have troubled her a little while ago.

He came in at length and stood looking down at her. Now that the light was better than it had been on the veranda of the hotel, she noticed that his lips were cut and that there was a bruise above one cheekbone. His jacket was also torn and there was no doubt that, taking it all round, his appearance was far from reputable. That, however, did not trouble her, for she had seen enough at the hotel to realize that the man had been injured while fighting in her cause. Still, she was wise enough not to begin by pitying him.

"Elcot," she said, "I want you to tell me exactly what happened at the settlement."

"I hadn't arrived at the beginning of it," the man replied. "I had a talk with Thorne afterward, however, and he confirmed my conclusion that Nevis had been informing anybody who cared to hear that you were in the habit of borrowing money from him. This was objectionable in itself, but he added in my hearing that I knew nothing about your action, and the way in which he said it was insufferable."

Florence's face flushed.

"What did you do about it?"

"First of all, I denied the most damaging statement – that I knew nothing about the thing. It seemed necessary to prove the contrary, which I did, though I had to admit the borrowing."

"And then?"

"I paid off the loans."

Hunter paused, and taking out two strips of paper threw them on the table.

"Here are your notes. I feel compelled to say that unless you get my consent beforehand you must never incur a liability of the kind again."

"I shall never wish to," Florence answered penitently. "We'll talk about that afterward; I want you to go on. You haven't told me the whole of it yet."

"What do you expect to hear?"

Florence's eyes flashed.

"I should like to hear that you had thrashed the man until he could scarcely stand!"

Her husband's face relaxed into a grim smile.

"Well, I'm afraid I didn't go as far as that, though it wasn't because the desire to do so failed me. As it happens, there's a good deal more courage in the fellow than I ever gave him credit for, and it's unfortunate that virtuous indignation doesn't make up for an inequality in muscular weight." He stopped a moment and laughed outright. "Still, I believe I got in once or twice with the quirt, which is consoling to remember, and I dare say I should have left another mark or two on him if the lamp hadn't suddenly been put out. On taxing Symonds with it afterward, he admitted that he was afraid his wife would make trouble if the room should be wrecked."

"Would it please you, Elcot, if I were to say that I'm very proud of that cut on your lip – though I'm horribly ashamed of being the cause of it? In any case, it's the simple truth."

"We'll take it for granted," replied Hunter, looking at her searchingly. "The trouble is that this matter has forced on a crisis. It's evident that our relations can't remain as they are just now."

"You don't find them satisfactory?"

"No." Hunter broke into a harsh laugh. "I don't know how I have borne with them as long as I have, though I've resolutely tried to fall in with your point of view. Anyway, I can't go on living with, and at the same time utterly apart from, you. It might have been possible if I had never been fond of you."

"Nobody could have blamed you if you had grown out of that regard for me," Florence suggested.

"The difficulty is that I haven't done so," Hunter declared more quietly, though there was still a trace of harshness in his tone. "As you imply, it's perhaps unreasonable of me, but there the fact is. The question is, What am I going to do?"

Florence stretched out her hands and her voice was very soft.

"Elcot," she murmured, "I really must have tried your patience very hard now and then, but just now I'm glad you find this state of things unbearable. Would it be very difficult to go back a few years and begin again – differently?"

The man moved nearer her and then stopped, hesitating.

"I'm afraid," he answered slowly, "there are respects in which I can't change. To begin with, I don't see how I am to provide for you as I should like if I abandon the life you chafe at and give up the farm. I have told you this often; but, even if it stands between us, it's a truth that must still be faced."

Florence rose and laid her hands in his.

"Then it's fortunate that a change is not impossible to me – in fact, I think I've changed a good deal already. It rather hurt me, Elcot, that you didn't seem to notice it."

The man stooped and kissed her.

"I noticed it," he said; "but I was almost afraid."

"Afraid it wouldn't last?" Florence reproached him. "Well, I suppose that is not so very astonishing – but I think this change will go on, and grow greater steadily. Anyway, I want it to."

Then she drew away from him.

"You're rather a reserved person, Elcot, and it will no doubt be a relief to you if we become severely practical. Besides, I want to show you how determined I am. Now that you have paid off my debts, we'll get out the account-books, and you shall decide how I'm to carry on the homestead."

Hunter laughed.

"No accounts to-night. It's beginning to strike me that both of us might have been happier if I hadn't thought about them so much. After all, I dare say it isn't wise to give economic questions the foremost place."

"Ah!" exclaimed Florence, "it's a pity it has taken you so long to learn that truth. I suppose I'm fond of money – at least, I'm fond of the things I used to fancy it could buy, but by degrees I found out that it can't buy those that are really worth the most. Now it almost looks as if I could get them at home – without any cost."

She paused while she sat down, and then once more she smiled up at him.

"Well," she continued, "I'll probably embarrass you if I go on in this strain – you seem to get uneasy when you venture ever so little out of your shell. For a change, you can read me the paper you brought from the settlement, and I won't grumble if it's about the markets and the price of wheat."

Hunter took up the paper. He was, where his deeper feelings were concerned, a singularly reticent man, which was, perhaps, an excuse for Florence and one explanation of the coldness that had grown up between them. Now he felt that there was to be a change, and because the prospect brought him a fervent satisfaction he refrained from speaking of it. He had, however, scarcely opened the paper when he started.

"Here's a piece of striking news!" he exclaimed. "Brand, of Winnipeg, has gone down – a disastrous smash. The fall in wheat has broken him. It appears that his liabilities are enormous, and there's practically nothing to meet them with."

He laid down the paper.

"I wonder," he added, "if Nevis could have heard of it before he left the settlement – though I think he must have done so, for the mail was already in. Anyway, when I was getting your team Bill told me that the man had driven off a few minutes earlier as fast as he could go."

"But how could the failure in Winnipeg affect Nevis?"

"Brand has been backing him, finding him the money to carry on his business, and now that he has gone under it may pull him down. The creditors will at once try to call in all outstanding loans, and I expect Nevis has his money so scattered that he can't immediately get hold of it. It's possible that the failure may drive him out of this part of the country."

They talked over the matter at some length, and the man was slightly astonished at the acumen his wife displayed. When at last he rose, it was with a deep content. He felt that a vista of happier days was opening up before them both.

On the following Monday he drove over to the Farquhar homestead, where Thorne was already waiting to hear what the lawyer had to tell. The latter, however, did not arrive until the evening, and Farquhar took him into the general-room where the others were sitting.

"You can, of course, speak to Miss Leigh privately, if you prefer," he said. "On the other hand, we are all of us acquaintances of Winthrop's, and, what is as much to the purpose, nobody you see here is very fond of Nevis."

Parsons smiled.

"As a matter of fact, I have Winthrop's permission to tell his friends anything they desire to learn, and he mentioned you and Mr. Thorne particularly. To begin with, I must excuse myself for the delay, but I found it necessary to go on to the railroad to meet Sergeant Williamson, and I had to call at Mrs. Calvert's. To proceed, after considering Winthrop's mortgage deed, it's my opinion that if he can substantiate his statements he has no cause for serious anxiety about the result in the event of his being brought to trial."

"It would be difficult to get over the fact that he sold the cattle," contested Farquhar.

"It would be impossible," Parsons corrected him. "Still, there's very little doubt that Nevis went farther than the homestead laws permit, and while our friend would very likely be found guilty of the offense there's so much to mitigate it that I'm inclined to believe it would be regarded very leniently. In fact, it's scarcely reasonable to suppose that Nevis would have proceeded to extremities unless he had counted on being able to retain possession of the mortgage deed."

"But couldn't he have been compelled to produce it in court?" Thorne inquired.

"Yes; if Winthrop had been ably represented. It must, however, be borne in mind that he has no great education, and he would probably not have set out matters clearly to any one who undertook to plead for him. He admits that he never thought of the mortgage deed until somebody suggested that he should try to recover it. Besides this, I'm inclined to fancy that Nevis was influenced by the fact that what appears to be a simple police case based upon an indisputable act – in this case the selling of the cattle – is apt to be rather casually handled by the court."

"Then you believe he will get off?"

"It's by no means certain yet that he will be tried."

They heard the announcement with varying astonishment, and Parsons continued.

"I endeavored to impress the views I have laid before you on Sergeant Williamson," he explained. "The matter, of course, does not rest with him, but he has come over to make inquiries, and what he has to say will be listened to. I also pointed out to him that one would expect the police case to break down if the man who had instituted it was either absent or reluctant to press it." He stopped a moment and looked round with a confidential air. "You have heard that Brand, of Winnipeg, has failed disastrously? There are reasons for believing that Nevis is involved in his fall; in any case, his office is closed, and it is known that he left the settlement, presumably for Winnipeg, by the last Montreal express."

There was only satisfaction in the faces of those who heard him. Then Mrs. Farquhar broke the silence.

"I wonder whether you could add anything to the last piece of information?"

"Well," smiled Parsons, "prediction is generally dangerous, and in my case it would be unprofessional, but I may confess that from one or two things I gathered I shouldn't be greatly astonished if Nevis failed to come back again."

Thorne laughed outright.

"After that," he said, "we'll take the thing for granted, and I haven't the least hesitation in declaring that it's a great relief to hear it."

Then the group broke up, and Alison strolled out with Thorne across the prairie. A half-moon hung above its eastern rim, and the great sweep of grass ran back into the dim distance faintly touched with the pale silvery light. It fell upon the girl's face when at length she stopped and stood looking about her with the man's hand on her shoulder. A long rise of ground, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, had cut off the lights of the house, and they stood alone in the empty waste surrounded by a deep stillness.

"It seems such a little while since I first saw the prairie, and I shrank from it then," she said. "It looked so bare and grim and utterly forbidding."

"And now?" Thorne prompted her.

Alison laughed, a little, happy laugh.

"Now its harshness has vanished and it has grown beautiful. When it lies under the moonlight it is steeped in glamour and mystery. Even the tiny grasses make elfin music when everything is still. I came out at sunrise this morning when a faint breeze got up and listened to them."

"Ah!" exclaimed Thorne softly, "it is only a few who can hear that music at all, and those, I think, must have it in their hearts already. It is a sign that you belong to the wilderness and it has laid its claim on you."

Alison smiled.

"Now that I have learned to know it, a fondness for the wilderness has crept into my blood; but, after all, your views are narrow; you don't go quite far enough. I think one could sometimes hear the music I spoke of in the noisy cities. Only, as you say, it must be in one's heart already."

Thorne looked down at her with a glow in his eyes.

"Ours are in unison."

"No," protested Alison, smilingly, "I think we should not benefit if that were possible. The most we can look for is a complex harmony. In the strain humanity raises there must be many different notes and many different parts."

Thorne laughed rather strangely as, with a little instinctive movement, he straightened himself.

"But the same insistent throb in all that is worth listening to."

"Ah!" murmured the girl; "then you recognized the note of unrest and endeavor, though you tried to shut your ears?"

"Now I know I heard it in crowded places; in the pounding of the forges, and the rumble of the mills. I've heard it a little plainer in the wash beneath the liner's bows and the din the Pacific express made crossing the silent prairie with the Empress mails. Still, as you suggested, I wouldn't grasp its message until one night I sat in the bluff and heard the birch twigs whispering while you rested in the wagon. Then I knew I was an idler and a trifler; one who stood aside while the others took their fill of the joys and pains of life."

Alison glanced up at him.

"Then you were awake that night?"

"Yes; I sat beneath a tree, and I don't know how often I smoked my pipe out, but my mouth was parched at sunrise, and there was a new purpose growing into shape at the bottom of my mind. You see, I realized that I must fall into line and toil like the rest if I wanted you."